


Someone to Save (Me)

by prosepoet



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angelic Steve, BAMF!Steve, Clint - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rescue, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Sassy Steve Rogers, Skinny!Steve, Slow Build, Thor Is a Good Bro, pre-serum!Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1892535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosepoet/pseuds/prosepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turning tricks isn't an easy job. </p><p>or Steve and Bucky look out for each other because the streets are no place to be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> found a prompt that essentially said "Steve and Bucky are prostitutes that look out for each other until they both want more" and somehow i got here from there. who knows.

Turning tricks isn’t an easy job.

Sure, it seems easy enough. I mean really, how hard could it be to have sex with someone for money? Sure, you have the _Is this really what its come to? Am I really doing this?_ stage, but it passes. Eventually you acclimate yourself to the feeling of being on your back—or on your knees or bent over the bed or pressed against the wall—half a dozen times or more in one night. And then it should be easy, right?

Wrong.

Let me tell you, prostitution isn’t just about sex. Of course for the john that’s _all_ its about, but for the worker _—_ the hooker, the whore—sex is just the tip of the iceberg. There are decisions to be made, you see? Do you take your chances flying solo or submit yourself to the protection of a pimp for 40% of your profits? Do you post on the strip with the most traffic even though there’s more competition or do you settle for the secret spots where there’ll be fewer tricks but even fewer rivals. And you think its easy to turn down drugs, right? Well your nights been crappy—hell, your life’s been crappy—and that guy is coming down the strip again, offering you a gram of blow for free since you’re a ‘first-time client’. Its tempting. Because how easy would it be to stuff powder in your nose until you’re numb to the countless number of dicks impaling your ass with the forces of pogo sticks and jackhammers. Until you can’t remember that your mom signed you over to the state so she could chase her pedophobic piece of shit boyfriend to the other side of the country; that the American Foster Care System is _seriously_ fucked and that Child Protective Services isn’t protective at all; that you live in one of the 7x7 rooms of a whorehouse because they don’t charge much rent and business has been so bad that you haven’t been able to earn enough for an apartment. You find yourself thinking that if you want to die anyway, you might as well go down under the euphoria of a coke high, right…

“He doesn’t want any.”

“I don’t think I was talking to you, _Steven_. Why don’t you let the man speak for himself?”

“I’m speaking for him, and I said he doesn’t want it. So get on. Find someone else’s life to ruin.”

“Always the hero, I’m sure that’s stressful, how about I offer--”

“Move on, Loki. Or would you rather I call Thor? What do you think? I for one am _sure_ your business on this strip would triple if everyone knew your brother was a cop.” Loki sucks his teeth and huffs to the side before he offers Steve his signature roguish grin.

“Very well then. Perhaps another time.”

_____ 

_6 Months Earlier_

I met Steve my first night out.

He leaned easily against a light pole, clad in a red tank top, black combat boots, and skin tight black jeans that hugged him real nice in all the right places. His sandy blonde hair stuck up a bit at the front as though he’d been running his hands through it and it gave off the vibe of looking-good-but-hardly-trying. It was sexy. Everything about him was sexy. No wonder his name was whispered in awe among the other pros on the street. Most amazing, though, was how small he was. He was barely 5’7 and couldn’t weigh more than a buck ten, _if_ that. At a quick glance I wondered—anyone would wonder—what someone would want with a scrawny little thing like him. But the longer you looked, the more angelic he seemed. His blue eyes, his easy smile, his glowing pale skin; it made perfect sense, people would pay good money if it meant an hour with a little slice of heaven.

But I wasn’t here to gawk. I was here because once you age out of foster care in the city they kick you out on your ass without so much as a pot to piss in. I’d been wandering down the street for the fourth night in a row when a guy stopped and asked me if I was working and then offered me thirty dollars for a blowjob. My lips had been fixed to refuse when my stomach growled. Its easy to judge, but I went to sleep that night without the pangs of hunger, so judge all you want.

Anyway, I was having some trouble picking up a trick. There were about 7 guys on the same block I was and all the johns seemed a lot more interested in them than they were in me. Until the black BMW pulled up, right in front of me, and rolled down the passenger side window.  It was nice, nicer than anything I’d seen on this block. The man inside was handsome but older, he was bald and brown skinned and his glasses were the kind without frames around the lenses. He had a watch on his left wrist—silver with gold on the face, expensive—and he was wearing a goddamn suit—Armani, maybe, also expensive. The smell of the leather seats wafted out through the windows and the draft from the cars air conditioning was refreshing in the humid night.

“Hello.” He said.

“Hello yourself.”

“Jason. Jason Sitwell.” His teeth were white and straight when he smiled.

“James Barnes.”

“What do you say we…take a ride?”

“I say I’d like that.”

“Great.” The doors clicked as he unlocked them, but before I could move towards the car there was a hand on my forearm pulling me back and that angelic slim body was standing between me and the few hundred dollars I was sure I could get out of this Jason guy.

“Jason. You know you aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Steve. You know you don’t run things around here.”

“That may be the case, but you still need to leave.”

“I will, when I get what I came here for.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“You know, that’s not up to you.”

“You’re right, its up to him.” He chucked his finger back and me and turned around. His eyes, bluer than the sky on the perfect summer day, peered into mine. “Listen, I know you’re new around here, and trust me you don’t want to go with this guy.” That wasn’t entirely true. I _did_ want to go with that guy. Because that guy had money, and I needed money. Desperately. But even though it was hard to say no to the money I could be making, it was even harder to say no to those eyes—earnest, honest, celestial.

“I—You know, I think I changed my mind, Jason. Sorry about that.” Jason sucked his teeth and clinched the steering wheel.

“There you have it. Send Alexander my well wishes and sincerest apologies.”

“Fuck you, Steve.” He spat.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell.” Steve retorted and he was tugging me away from the street before I could hear if Jason replied.

“Uh….thanks, I think…” Steve chuckled.

“That guys bad news. He works for a real nasty big time pimp, Alexander Pierce. Not the kind of thing you want to get caught up in. Trust me.”

“Shit. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” He extends his hand. “Steve Rogers.”

“James Barnes…or, I mean everyone calls me Bucky.”

“Bucky.” His smile is killer. Really. “Nice to meet you. Look, stick close, alright? It can be brutal out here, dangerous.”

“Oh…no. No thanks. I mean thanks for earlier but I can handle myself.”

“Im sure you can, but holding your own with a foster family or in a group home isn’t the same as surviving out here.”

“I…wait, what? How did you--”

“Pros only come from a few places around here. You don’t look a druggie, too old to be a runaway, that means either foster kid or something out of the ordinary, but ordinary is always the better bet. So which was it, foster family or group home?”

“Family.” Steve nods.

“Group home. I aged out last year.”

“Oh…”

“Yea. Anyway, looks like you’ve been having a slow night. You’re here every time I leave and every time I get back.” What do you say to that? I just shrug. “Look, I’ll introduce you to one of my regulars. He’ll give you enough for a motel and a meal, what do you say?”

“Ok…yea. Thanks.”

Turning tricks isn’t an easy job. But it’s a little easier when you’ve got a guardian angel.

_____ 

The rest is history. Well, maybe not history, but that night was definitely the start of something good. Steve and I, we look out for each other. He helped me learn the ropes; how to avoid the dangerous johns; how to not get cheated out of money; where the best corners and strips were, and when there was the most traffic. He wasn’t big or intimidating, but he was smart and beautiful and that usually got him what he wanted—respect.

And as it turns out, Steve needed me as much as I need him.

Well maybe not _as_ much. But still.

A few months after the incident with Loki, Steve climbs out of a car with his shirt torn and blood dribbling from his busted lip. He has bruises on the back of his neck and his left eye is purpling. Now, I’m in the middle of laying out the basics for this new john _(You can get the total package for 150. Otherwise I fuck you for 30, I blow you for 40…well, yea I guess you can blow me, for 40, yea. You fuck me for 80…_ fuck yes _80…no, no deals you don’t get a fucking_ coupon _for this type of shit.)_ But it can wait, because Steve climbing out of a car looking like someone used him as a punching bag takes precedent over mostly everything. 

“What kind of fucking prostitute doesn’t give blow jobs?” The man is raging from the car.

“Im not putting my lips on your _diseased_ dick, even with a condom!” Steve shouts back.

“You little shit!” The man growls, but before he can say much else the collar of his shirt is in my fist and I’m yanking him from the car.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Punch. “You don’t put your fucking hands on him, you hear me?” Punch. “I said _do_ _you_ _hear me._ ” Punch.

“Bucky!” Steve keeps yelling, but I don’t stop until his face looks worse than Steve’s does. Because Steve’s skin, all pale and creamy and smooth, doesn’t deserve to be marked unless its with evidence of tender loving. And Steve’s face, chiseled in its structure and heavenly in its warmth, shouldn’t be bruised the way it is now. And Steve, in all his honest goodness, doesn’t deserve to be treated like shit.

“Get the fuck out of here.” Is all I can say when I’m done. Of course Steve protests when I drag him to the wall of a closed storefront and force him to sit.

“I can take care of myself, Bucky!”

“Shut up, punk.” It’s a lighthearted insult. Actually its not an insult, more like a term of endearment. Because this man, I don't think I could say one ill word against him. Nine months, thats all it took for me to fall. Pathetic, right? 

“Jerk.” Steve huffs under his breath, but he lets me look at his eye, so if wants to have an internal temper tantrum, its fine by me.

“Condoms. Clean needles. Anti-virals.” Someone is saying and then, “Oh, Steve! I didn’t know that was you.”

“Dr. Banner. Hey.” Steve moves to stand. The guy he’s talking to is wearing dress pants and a sports coat that doesn’t match and are too big and a purple button down with the top couple of buttons undone. His hair is a wild curly mess and his glasses sit a little low on his nose. Beside him is another man, but his suit is tailored and the pants and jacket match. His button down is white, the same couple of buttons undone, and he has on sneakers. Who wears sneakers with a suit that nice?

“Dr. Banner, Tony, this is Bucky Barnes. Buck, this is Dr. Bruce Banner and Mr. Tony Stark.”

“uh, hey.”

“Hello, do you need condoms? Clean needles?” The doctor says.

“I don’t do drugs.” And even though I try to sound offended, I cant really. Because if it wasn’t for Steve, the statement would be a lie.

“I don’t mean to assume, I-”

“Tony and Bruce are from a non-profit.” Steve explains. “The non-profit over that free clinic where I get the medicine for my inhaler. They come out here ever so often and have mobile van for STI/HIV testing, and sometimes just to make sure the pros have what they need to be safe.”

“Right, and Steve I know you’re always safe. but what in the hell happened to your face?” Tony asks.

“Guy got mad I wouldn’t suck his herpes dick.” Steve mumbles, exasperated. “Don’t worry, Bucky here beat the snot out of him.”

“Good for you!” Tony exclaims and claps his hand on my back. I have to fight the urge to break his arm. Hey, its a reflex action. 

“I’m happy to see you finally decided to team up with someone out here, Steve.” And then, “We’d better get going. Still have a few more strips to hit.”

“Ok. Nice seeing you Dr. Banner. Later, Tony.”

“You know the offer I made you is still on the table, kid.”  Tony says, even though Dr. Banner has wandered on to talk to some guys over outside of the adjacent storefront.

“Yea…Yea I know.”

“Think about it.”

“Yea, I will. Thanks Tony.”

“What kind of offer?” Curiosity killed the cat, I know. But you’d want to know, too. Steve sighs.

“Its nothing, Buck. I think Im gonna head in for the night.”

“Its barely after 12, Steve. Christ.”

“Yea I know. But no one’s gonna so much as look at my bruised face anyway. So I’ll see you tomorrow, yea?”

“Ok, yea.”

The next few hours are busy, a bunch of guys wanting blowjobs mostly. It isn’t until around 3 am that things slow down. I figure maybe I should take off early, too, until another car pulls up and since October is dragging cold weather in with it, taking this now might mean having food during what Steve calls the “dry season.” Which is really just the winter months, when no one wants to be out—not pros or johns.

The window rolls down and the man in the drivers seat is older, a lot older. His hair is blonde but its obviously heading towards white in a hurry.

“How are you tonight?” He asks, and I’d rather not with the bullshit.

“You want the rundown? You can get the—”

“No. I’m familiar with how things are done around here."

"Ok so what'll it be?"

"Get in?” Gosh, old men. Always want to create some sort of mood. 

“So what’ll it be?” I say again when the door closes and he pulls off.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Married politician. Former pro athlete. Look, its really not important. You guys have less of a chance getting caught with the lower scale ‘escorts.’ I know. I don’t need to know who—”

“I’m Alexander Peirce.”

"Ok great Alexand-"

 

Shit.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve's head and heart never agree, Pierce is an asshole in every way, and Bucky is the strongest person I know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***There is graphic description of non-con/rape in this chapter. PLEASE heed this warning***  
> if you don't want to read that part, just skip Bucky's POV. 
> 
> also, turns out this is gonna be four chapters instead of three, yay?   
> also, there's a lot of background at the beginning but its sorta important and obligatory.   
> also, i just...i'm sorry in advance, ok?

Steve slams the door to his apartment and leans against it.  The most relieved he’s ever been--aside from the day he was finally free from AFS--was when he’d finally saved up enough for the deposit and first months rent. Its not the nicest place, but it’s his. Even better, its relatively safe. At the boarding house where he’d stayed before, he had to buy 4 deadbolts for his room’s door _and_ sleep curled around all his possessions with a knife under his pillow. He’d been almost attacked more times than he couldn’t count: by belligerent drunks, by persistent men, by muggers, and by people that just didn’t like him. Now, he had his own space and he didn’t have to worry about people stealing from him. Now he could leave his bedroom without fear of being mauled. His bathroom didn’t smell like rat piss and stale shit and he could actually cook in his kitchen.  Safety. Comfort. Living without looking over his shoulder _constantly._ That was the best part.  Yet, somewhere behind his gratitude was a hint of guilt. Mostly because Bucky—who beat up unruly men and hung to Steve’s every word like it was gospel and had had a simply shitty life from what Steve knew—still lived in a ratty shack with 12 other tenants.

He sighed and tried to derail that train of thought. Because even if Bucky was the only person that had ever looked at Steve with genuine admiration—like Steve was the 8th wonder of the world—instead of with lust-blown pupils like Steve was a steak dinner, there was still nothing he could do. In order to survive on the streets, in this game, you had to be able to make your own way. Sure, he’d done the guy a favor that first night—but Alexander and his roadies were absolute scum and anyone—especially a newbie—deserved to be warned about them. But the stuff that followed, helping the guy transition into the business, that was strategy. That was a business transaction. He showed Bucky the ropes, kept him out of immediate danger, and Bucky beat the snot out of guys that dared to step to Steve inappropriately. That was it. It started and stopped on the strip. Bucky’s life, his living situation, that was personal. And even though his heart always begged him to, Steve didn’t do personal; his head knew better

Well as Bruce had pointed out, Steve didn’t really do “business” either, he preferred to work alone. To be alone. Always. But that was beside the point. 

He toed off his shoes and shuffled to the kitchen in socked feet. The tile was always cold, and cold feet gave him the flu in the winter…at least that’s what his mom always said before she died.

He shut that train of thought down, too.

Instead he grabbed a bottle of water from his fridge, sat down in one of the mismatch chairs he had for his dining room table, and thought about what Tony Stark had told him earlier.

_…the offer I made you is still on the table, kid._

Tony Stark was one of the biggest names in the non-profit sector.

He used to be the biggest name in hand-held weapons distribution—the Smith and Wesson of the 21st century. But, its funny how things change. On a PR trip to Chicago he ran into a shootout and apparently the experience had turned his entire outlook on life around. He was in town for a benefit dinner that night, held to raise funds for the children’s ward of a hospital on the rougher side of town. That morning, however, he was supposed to be at the hospital for a photo with the higher ups. Instead, he got caught in the crossfire of a drug-related firefight; the man took two slugs to the chest and nearly died. The kicker for Tony had been that he’d seen the guy that pulled the trigger. He was a _kid,_ Tony guessed no older than 15, and he didn’t look like a killer; he looked like a kid, scared shitless and holding a weapon that Tony recognized as one of his company’s own. And because Tony made guns for license carrying adults, police forces, and government agencies—CIA, Secret Service, FBI, and the like—the kids scrawny arms jerked off target when he pulled the trigger, two of the 5 bullets he shot hit Tony.

Later reports found that the kid that shot Tony was barely fourteen; the oldest perpetrator involved in the fiasco was only 21. Once his chest patched up, Tony denounced his weapons dealing business, much to the dismay of many. He took a vested interest in the plights of inner-city youth and started investigating a slew of causes dealing mainly with drugs and violence. Out of his research the StarkWorkz Youth Program was born. It served to provide at-risk youth with alternatives to dealing drugs or getting involved with gangs and violence mostly through after-school recreation programs and weekend field trips. The star of the operation was the science and engineering program every Saturday, where kids spent nearly 6 hours in a rec center working on various science and engineering based projects. Tony instructed the program himself twice a month.

Tony met Dr. Banner at some fancy non-profit shindig for start-up organizations to meet funder. Even though Tony’s organization was a start-up, he was there as a funder. He was sitting on old money, as his dad Howard had been a renowned engineer and worked on the Manhattan Project, and he had made enough in weapons dealing to own and operate a small country. Tony really wanted to scope out and recruit ill-used interns and brilliant-but-over-looked-by-the-board program directors. Instead, he met Bruce. He and Tony hit it off quickly. After learning about the man’s dedication to preventing the spread of HIV among young male prostitutes and the trouble he was having with funding, Tony took on the cause _and_ Banner as a part of his organization. Eventually he also took on Banner as his husband. The Health Program was Bruce’s brain child, the biggest part of which was the PartyBus: mobile clinics where pros and street kids could get access to condoms, clean needles, referrals to non-profit drugs rehabilitation centers, HIV and STI testing, and regular medical care, all for free. Outreach work like what Tony and Bruce had been doing tonight was also a part of the program—Tony often referred to it as ‘bringing the party to you.’ Bruce and Tony had combined their ideas and came up with the Iron Man Initiative. A program for young adult men from 18-24 who were trying to transition from one lifestyle—prostitution, drug using/dealing, or prison—to a more stable one; making strong men into stronger men. Stark Industries provided counseling, support groups, life skills courses, and even jobs for individuals in a variety of areas.

The last part was what Tony was trying to recruit him for. Tony and Bruce had never had much luck on their late night excursions to the city’s most popular strips for prostitution. The pros tended to be insecure and thereby defensive and easily offended. To make matters worse, no one really trusted anyone out there. However, when Steve had arrived, fresh off a bus from the Jersey group home they’d stuck him in, he’d quickly earned the respect of a great many of his sex-selling friends. Though he was slight, he held his own. He didn’t let anyone bully on manhandle him, he was popular with the johns, he was honest and straightforward no matter the circumstance and he was a natural leader. If anyone had any purchase with most of the pros in the area, it was Steve—his… _situation_ with Alexander Pierce had only increased this leverage. Unlike most of his…coworkers?...he liked Bruce and Tony. He didn’t trust them—he didn’t trust anyone—but he knew genuine goodness when he saw it, and even if Tony could be a snarky asshole, Bruce radiated goodness like radiation. If he kept Tony around the guy couldn’t be all that bad. So Steve served as their middleman. He got guys he knew to hit the Party Bus for supplies and testing, to take the needles and condoms Tony and Banner offered if they didn’t have their own. It was business, like with Bucky, a business transaction. In exchange for his help, Bruce always made sure they had Steve’s inhaler medication in stock even though it wasn’t a typical amenity.  

However, because Tony Stark had no respect for privacy or personal space, he’d somehow gotten his hands on  Steve’s school records. Of course the records showed Steve’s impressive history with art. Apparently there were even copies of his acceptance letters to art schools in New York, California, and Maryland. Acceptance letters he’d thrown in the trash because even though his school guidance counselor had made him apply, he knew he would never be able to pay for it. Foster families and group homes had screwed him seven times sideways; he wouldn’t have been able to take out loans and if he couldn’t get a loan, he’d never be able to afford the costs of college and living. Still, when Tony found out about Steve’s art skills he’d ask Steve to come join their organization—as the _head­_ of their new ArtWorkz after-school program in _Manhattan_. He’d told them that he wasn’t qualified, but they’d only offered him on the job training _and_ an opportunity to go to night school—for free. 

It was all too good to be true, and Steve had learned that if it _seemed_ too good to be true, it probably was. So he’d denied, wary of what would be required of him if he took the position—all the ways it could backfire against him and leave him back on his ass like he’d started. No, he had a good thing going here. It wasn’t the best set up—he admitted sucking and fucking with closeted men, _married_ men, perverts, slobs, and assholes wasn’t his ideal lifestyle. But he brought in enough money to live all right, and if he kept saving he would do alright. Better than he and his mom had done before she died. Better than he’d been doing in foster care.

But the more Tony and Bruce came around, making nice and offering him a real job and real money and an escape from the streets, the more appealing it sounded. He was torn, head over heart. His head told him that this was the real world and good situations don’t just fall into your lap; his heart told him that Tony and Bruce were good people and that this was a good opportunity.

He sighed again and finished his water. Just thinking about it gave him a headache, on top of the already aching bruises on his face. Dragging himself out of the chair, he hit the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash off the night. In bed, he tried not to think of anything…his mother, his life, Tony’s offer… the one thing he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about was Bucky.

__

“What do you want from me?” I couldn’t help but snarl. The bastard has me locked in his car and he’s driving down some roads back roads I’m not familiar with. Still, I try to memorize landmarks, so at least I’ll be able to get most of the way back after I kick this geezer’s ass and hightail it the fuck out of here.

“Im sure you remember my friend, Jason…”

“I don’t know any Ja—” _Jason. Jason Sitwell…what do you say we go for a ride?_ Oh, him. “The bald guy you send to do your bidding?”

Peirce chuckles. “Im sure he wouldn’t appreciate the description. He took a real liking to you, thought you would be good for my business. I can see why.”

“Whatever business you’re running, I don’t want any part in it. Let me out.”

“It doesn’t quite work that way, _James.”_

“Well how does it work, _Alexander?_ ” Peirce chuckles again.

“Feisty, are we? Well, I suppose its good that you don’t break too easily.”

“Fucking pissed is probably the more accurate term. and I never break, not at the hands of men like you. Now where the fuck are we going and why?”

He turns into the fenced parking lot of what looks like an abandoned building and puts the car in park.

His voice is ominous when he says “You’ll see soon enough,”

And its the last thing I remember, aside from the sudden prick in my thigh and the darkness that suddenly takes over.

 

When I wake up, I’m buck-ass nude. I try to move but my wrists are bound at my side to the table or bed or cot or what-the-hell-ever I’m lying on. This is bad. This is so bad. When my vision clears I glance around the room. Its not very well lit, but there’s enough light that I can see. My clothes are no where to be found. There are no windows and the door is to the left. The light comes from a lamp in one corner. There’s a nightstand beside the cot and there’s…wait…fuck. are those…stirrups, I remember them from the birth video we watched once in health class. Yea, this is bad.

Peirce enters not long after I’m officially convinced that this is a really shitty situation, with no visible way out. He has two…three…five men trailing in behind him.

“Right now we’re just taking him for a trial run, but Jason is optimistic that he’ll be a good fit for our new program. Said there was something special about him. So we’ll see.”

“You want us to break him in?” One man asks. Peirce nods.

“You’ll be the first to have him. We need to see how he handles it.”

“Fuck no!” I hear my voice, but hadn’t realized I’d screamed that out loud.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Peirce says, approaching. “These are my friends. They’re going to take you for a ride.”

“Like hell they are, let me up you prickly old hag. I don’t want to do this, I’m not doing this.”

“Oh, James, its nothing you haven’t done before. You do this for a living, don’t you? Let men _fuck_ you for _money_.” His voice drips with condemnation and for whatever reason, his condescendence makes my chest burn. _Fuck him. He doesn’t matter._ Thats what Steve would say. 

“Maybe that’s the case but _I_ say who and _I_ say when. And right now Im saying not them, not ever.” Peirce, the facetious little shit, makes a face of mock sympathy.

“Oh I’m sorry, this isn’t your _street_ or _strip_ or your world of amateur games.” He teases. But his voice isn't taunting or joking when he says “You want to know how my business works? Here, you’re just a whore, and whore’s fuck who I tell them to fuck and get fucked by who I allow to fuck them. You want a _choice_ , well here you can have one—either shut up or I’ll gag you.”

As much as I don’t want to, as much as I want to spit in Peirce’s face and tell him to bite me, I have to force myself to be quiet. There’s no way I’m letting this man gag me if I have a choice, but my hands are bound to the table so the only way I could really stop him is to do what he says. Fucking cunt.  “Good, _boy”_ He says and not in the ‘you’re a good boy’ way, but in the ‘that’s right, little shit, you had better do what I say’ way. Instead of speaking, I think of 12 different ways I could kill the bastard. He glances back at the men and my eyes follow. They’ve all done away with their pants and skivvies and are damn near circle jerking near the door. Pigs.

These men are going to fuck me. I’m going to have to take it. There’s nothing I can do.

Right now is the closest I’ve been to tears since I was 7.

But I don’t. Because I wasn't lying when I said I wouldn't break at the hands of some scum like this guy. These sick pervert rapist bastards won’t get the best of me. That’s what Steve would say “ _You make the rules, Buck. Don’t let them get the best of you.”_ and I may not be making who/when rules, but I decide if I cry or if I scream or if I show weakness. I make _those_ rules and I’ll be damned before I let the bastards break me.

 _Don’t let them get the best of you_ I think to myself as Peirce situates my feet into the stirrups. I imagine it’s Steve’s voice speaking to me, imagine his brilliant smile as the words fall off his lips

 _Don’t let them get the best of you_ I think again when the first guy comes up, his dick hard as a diamond and _bare_. When pushes my legs even farther apart, I think instead of the feather light touch of Steve’s thin soft fingers on my forearm when he speaks with concern

D _on’t let them get the best of you_ I repeat when he shoves himself in, uncovered and without lube. I want to scream at the pain; the roughness of his unlubricated member, the stretch of being entered without preparation. It burns and he’s rough, violent. The sounds of his grunts make my skin cringe, but I don’t think about it. I think of Steve’s blue eyes, the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, one of the most peaceful things I've ever known. I think of how beautiful they are, not because they are clearer than Caribbean waters—which they are—but because they shine with purity. About how they crinkle at the corners when he smiles and how he’ll likely have crows feet before he’s 30. About how they become icy when someone’s pissed him off and the steely gaze is enough to cut through cement and leave no jagged edges. About how he hoods them so expertly when he’s going for a trick, turning from the sweet and innocent cherub to a lustful tempter, an Aphrodite, perhaps the goddess herself in male form.

The first man doesn’t last long; after 5 minutes he’s blowing his load onto my chest and I have to hold my breath to keep from vomiting.

 _Don’t let them get the best of you_ I tell myself over and over as each man has his turn with me. None of them wear condoms. None wear lube. Each one lasts longer than the one before him. By the time the last one adds his seed to the dry cum on my chest, I’ve checked out. A bit before the third man reached his climax I ran out of pleasant images to distract myself with. By the time the fourth man finished I’d shut myself down--its a practiced reaction, life in foster care is no fucking joke. I don’t feel anything, but I write my dry eyes and clamped lips off as a victory. I feel broken, wrecked, violated, worthless but at least they don’t know it. They'll never know. 

Near the door I can barely make out the sight of the men each handing Peirce a large wad of money. When they are gone, he lets my legs down and unbuckles my wrists. I want to jump on him; to beat him within an inch of his life and then draw out his impending death for hours until he doesn’t have the will to be as quiet as I’ve been, but instead begs to die. But it feels like someone’s torn me in two—and not in the satisfactory way. In the way that won’t bring sweet sleep afterward, but nightmares; not in the 'i wont be able to walk tomorrow haha' way, but in the 'i think something inside me is actually broken' way; the way a thousand showers will never wash off. He takes out a money clip and hands me a bill. It’s $50. The wad of money in his hand has to be at least two grand. And he hands me Fifty. Goddamned. Dollars.

“Come on, I’ll show you to your room, James” He says with a wicked smile. “I think you’ll be perfect for what we have it store.”

__

 

Two days later, Steve is dressed in his day clothes—also known as regular as opposed to skintight jeans and a Henley instead of a tank top—as he walks down to the Party Bus’s location for the day. Even though Steve knows he will likely see Tony there and that the man will likely ask him—again—whether or not he’s going to accept the offer, he makes a point of getting tested faithfully every 6 months, and today marks exactly 6 months since he was last tested. He hasn’t seen Bucky the past couple of nights and it worries him despite his efforts to be unconcerned. Bucky is a grown man. They don’t work the same strips every night. Maybe Bucky found a good spot that’s working for him. Maybe Bucky has even decided that he and Steve don’t really need this partnership anymore and decided to move on. The last thought makes Steve’s chest tighten involuntarily.

 _Get your shit together, Rogers._ He tells himself as he approaches the mobile clinic and signs his name on the list to be tested. He’s headed towards a park bench when he hears someone calling his name.

“Steve! Steve! Hey, Steve wait up!” Its Wade. Wade Wilson. They work the same areas sometimes, but Steve wouldn’t call him a friend, so he can’t fathom why the man if running him down.

“Hey Wade…”

“Oh man don’t look _so_ happy to see me.” Wade cracks. “What happened to your eye?” Steve absently touches the portion under his eye that he knows is still a little purple.

“Run-in with the wrong kinda fella.” He answers vaguely.

“Was it Peirce? I figured you probably had it out after he took your friend and all—” Wade babbles quickly.

“It wasn’t Peirce. “ Steve says, and then “wait…what did you say?”

“Uh I said 'was it Peirce?' but you heard that part because you said—”

“Wade.”

“Ok Ok… you have it out for Peirce because he took your friend, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh… _oh._ You haven’t heard then…”

“Heard _what,_ Wade?”

“Peirce has your boy, the new kid, Barney…Billy…the dark haired one.”

“ _Bucky?!_ ”

“Yea! That’s the one. Came through a picked him up a couple of nights ago.”

“No one tried to stop him?!”

“Hey I wasn’t there! Don’t shoot the messenger man. What I heard is that the guy went with him like it was no biggie.”

“Of course he did, he wouldn’t know Pierce from fucking Adam. Christ.”

“Oh…yeaaa, that probably explain why he just went like that then.” Steve rolls his eyes impatiently.

“What else do you know, Wade?”

“Uhhh… well I heard Peirce has some sort of plans for the guy, dunno what. They’ve been looking for a boy for some…program… Like I said I dunno, but some guys I…uh…hang out with…occasionally not often…only once eve-”

“ _Wade. Focus.”_

“Oh yea, well they said Hyrda was planning some sort of new operation aside from their usual rent boy stuff, some real BDSM type stuff. and they’d been looking for a pro that could handle the job they wanted.”

“But why? There are plenty of BDSM clubs in the city if that’s what you’re into…”

“’parently what they’re doing would…uh…break most clubs rules.” Steve is speechless. He stands stunned before he thinks to ask  _why_ Wade knows this information.

“Wade how the fuck do you kno-”

“aaaand that’s my cue I think, maybe, you hear that? I think someone’s calling me so I’m just gonna go, good luck with your friend and all and you know if anyone happens to ask this didn’t happen.” 

What in _the_ fuck. Peirce and his clan of clowns had Bucky. They were going to use him to suck money out of hardcore and abusive dominants. This was bad.

 _This is personal_. A little voice in his head told him. This was Bucky’s problem. Bucky’s life. This was outside of his scope, outside of how far he went to help other people. This wasn’t business. 

But if he was honest, none of it had been. Sure he’d stopped Bucky from going with Sitwell, but…it hadn’t been a transaction. It had all been personal; in the way he smiled at Bucky, the way he touched him when he talked; in the way he went the extra mile for him and protected him from all the manipulative little shits on the streets. In the way he thought about him while he was lying in his bed at night, worrying about him, wishing for him, cursing himself for both. In the way that a few weeks ago Steve had brought himself to a blinding orgasm for the first time in nearly 18 months while thinking about Bucky’s ‘fuck me face’ in the shower; Bucky had insisted that if Steve helped him perfect it he might get more business—Steve had thought that every variation of the expression would make him want to fuck Bucky through the floor without question. It was personal.

 _ _It’s not wise.__  The voice said _. T _his isn’t the way we do things__

 

Steve clenched his jaw

 _Fuck you_ he thought _we’re doing things a little differently._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve is stressed and Bucky is broken in.   
> also, cue Thor, Phil, Clint, and Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again trigger warning for non/con and abusive BDSM in Bucky's p.o.v because Pierce is a snide little shit.

____

“Thor. I need to see Thor Odinson, _please._ ” Steve said desperately for the fifth time. The receptionist in the police station sighed heavily and looked up from her computer.

“Sir, I’ve told you you’re going to have to wait—”

“Bullshit!”

“Sir, if you don’t lower your tone of voice I’m going to have to have you removed from the premises.”

“Well how about you stop jerking me around and—”

“I really don’t appreciate you taking that tone with me, sir.”

“You haven’t seen a tone yet, _ma’am_ ”

After speaking with Wade Steve jumped on the subway and headed down to the area special victims unit. Despite his threat to Loki, Thor Odinson wasn’t actually cop.Well not technically. He was a special detective on loan to the unit from some branch of the FBI that dealt with crime epidemics; his specialty was illegal sex trafficking. Even though prostitution wasn’t illegal, the trade and selling of human beings, or the importation of a human being for the purpose of prostitution, was.  Such activities had been steadily on the rise in Brooklyn. A lot of the kids on the street were wising up, realizing that the risk they took not having a pimp was far less than the risk they took with one. On the one hand it was great, most small time pimps had been put out of business, back to peddling drugs on street corners. But on the other hand, there were the men who worked on a much larger scale; men who weren’t _just_ controlling and suffering from a serious authority complex; men in the big leagues, who were strategic and persistent and, most of all, powerful. Men like Pierce. It was because of these men that there’d been a spike in domestic and international kidnappings and forced prostitution, and Brooklyn had somehow become a hub for such interactions. The city law enforcement had been trying to get a handle on the situation since it started three years ago, but when this agency—SHIELD, Steve believed it was called—got word of its steady progression last year, they’d sent Thor in. Steve for one was especially glad they had.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” A man said. He was of average height and build even though he looked relaxed, there was something taught and rigid about him. Not like he was tense, but like he could go from mild-mannered-and-easy-going to I-can-break-both-your-legs-30-different-ways in 7 seconds flat.

“I need to speak with Thor Odinson, its…its urgent.”

“Sir,” The receptionist starts, but she’s talking to the man not to Steve, “I’ve told him Mr. Odinson isn’t available, I was just about to have an officer escort him off the premises.”

Steve glares at her, but before he can snap back the man speaks up, “Thank you but that won’t be necessary. Mr…”

“Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

“Mr. Rogers, follow me.” Steve does, because at least he’s leaving the waiting room and this man isn’t kicking him out. They round a corner and start down a long hallway. “I’m Agent Phil Coulson, tactical and logistics manager for SHIELD off-site operations.”

“uh, ok.”

“Which essentially means I oversee all operations involving SHIELD agents at this precinct. I assume, since you are looking for Thor, you know of SHIELD?”

“Not..not extensively. I know they’re here, well I know Thor’s here. I mean I was in…a situation a year ago and Thor helped me. Now Buc-ah, my friend is in the same situation, except its much, much worse.” Coulson makes a sound of acknowledgement.

“Would this situation have anything to do with Alexander Pierce?”

“Yes. Yes, it would, how’d you—”

“Pierce and his organization, Hydra, have been on SHIELD’s radar, and not just because we know he’s up to something. Hydra is the one of the largest and most invasive organized crime coalition in the world, and they have been for quite sometime. They work on a hierarchical scale; one crew makes things possible for the one above it, who’s crimes are a bit more serious and serve to make things possible for the crew above _it._ Its all quite…convoluted. Pierce and the crew here in Brooklyn are somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy.” Steve has to take a moment to comprehend what he’s heard. He thought Pierce was an asshole and knew he was a criminal. But he didn’t know, never could have imagined, that it ran this deep.

“So what do they want with us—I mean, why prostitutes?” 

“They’ve been exploiting and abusing prostitutes in preparation for something bigger. We think its about money. Since its legalization, prostitution has become one of the most profitable industries in the states. It’s projected from a national poll that sex is number 5 on the list on recreational activities Americans spend the most money on.”

Steve snorts. “How ironic, Americans love buying sex but have no respect for the people who sell it.” Someone says, taking the words right from his mouth. Steve stops and turns around, but Phil doesn’t. The man who made the statement is wearing black cargo pants, combat boots, and a form fitting black t-shirt that highlights his impressive arm muscles.

“Good Afternoon Agent Barton.” Phil says before turning around. He sighs. “What have I told you about appropriate office attire, Barton?”

“I’m not a suit, boss, I’m a field specialist. I dress to fight, not to do paperwork.”

“If you keeps wearing cargo pants to the office you’ll be doing several stacks of paperwork from your couch on three day suspension.” Barton rolls his eyes, obviously not taking the man too seriously.

“Clint Barton.” He says offering his hand to Steve.

“Steve Rogers.” Steve says, taking it. But he’s not here for introductions, “You were saying?” He says, turning back to Phil. Coulson nods and continues down the hall; Barton falls into step behind them.

“Hydra figures that the quickest way to make the money they need to fund whatever it is they’re planning is to monopolize the sex industry...by force.” Steve nods.  Pierce has been snatching pros off the streets and forcing them to work for him because said organized crime clan needs money for some unknown project.

“So all of this…you guys coming in, the rise in trafficking here in Brooklyn, that’s all Hydra? I thought, I mean everyone had been talking about things finally being…not safe but… saying it was less risky now for pros to leave their pimps. Said _that’s_ why people were being imported from other countries or taken off the streets. But…its not is it? They’re controlling _all_ of this?” Phil’s lips press into a tight line.

“That’s classified.” Phil says.

“That means yes.” Clint perks up. Phil glares at him from over his shoulder.

“Shit…” Steve mumbles, and he thinks he needs a minute. He stops and leans against the wall, putting one hand on his forehead. Hydra was a hierarchy. One thing begot another. They were probably controlling everything about the ‘industry’ in Brooklyn. He’d escaped. Survived his mothers death and the years of shitty group homes. Survived the whorehouse he’d stayed in and nearly two years working the streets. He’d finally though he thought he was living a quiet and unassuming life, handling his business and going home. But it turns out he’d, they’d all, been pawns in some elaborate scheme to fund the operations of a _goddamned international criminal organization._ He'd always relied on the notion of transcendence. That one day he'd be above all the bullshit he'd been buried under for all of his life. But this...with something like this was escape even possible? 

“Mr. Rogers?” Phil said.

“Hey man, are you alright?” Came Clint’s voice right behind him.

“Six hours ago I thought the biggest things I had to worry about were getting screwed over by some do-gooder and a…” Steve pants and chuckles in disbelief. “a fucking crush on my friend. but now I find out I’ve been working in the middle of just…God knows what. This morning I thought if I kept my guard up, keep the number of people I trust to _zero,_ and keep Pierce and his men away from me I’d make it out and then I find out Pierce is basically controlling the streets I work on.” Steve shakes his head and chuckles again, feeling lightheaded. _Inhaler_ he thinks fumbling in his pockets as he strangles out “There’s no escape.”

“Hm, that’s funny. Word on the street is that you aren’t the escaping type.”

He looks up and scowls at the red head that’s standing in the door about a foot from where he’s leaning, inhaler suddenly forgotten. She’s got the same I-can-kill-you-easily look as Coulson, but she doesn’t bother with the pretense of approachable.

“Who are you and what would you know about me?” Steve manages.

“Natasha Romanoff, SHIELD field specialist, Intel Department.”

“So, what? you have intel on me?”

“I know a thing or two.”

“You too?” He looks to Clint. The man shakes his head.

“I’m just a weapon.” He answers. Both Natasha and Phil roll their eyes.

“You have a reputation, Steve Rogers.” Natasha says, turning her attention back to Steve. “The way I hear it you don’t bother with bullshit. You showed up here in Brooklyn one night right of a bus from Jersey and didn’t hesitate to do what you had to do. Even when the truth isn’t beneficial to you, you make a point of telling it and when a man steps to you and you fight. Escapism isn’t your style. Not even in foster care or with Pierce, so why now, Rogers?”

Steve pushes himself from against the wall, instead steadying himself with just a palm against the plaster. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like that Hydra controls things they shouldn’t be able to control. He doesn’t like that Pierce has Bucky. He definitely doesn’t like that these people—this woman—knows things about him, or thinks she knows. Thinks she can make him feel bad about wanting to feel safe enough to breath, for once in his damn life. For wanting a bit of control.

“Look, _Romanoff_ , I don’t care about your intel. I don’t care what you know or you think you know—you don’t. You don’t know anything about what happened when I was a kid, what happened with Pierce and you damn sure don’t anything about me.” Her eyes go cold and menacing, but she smirks before turning on her heels and going back into the room.

“This way.” Coulson says, following her. Its only when he’s preparing to prepare himself to move that he realizes the adrenaline coursing through his veins has cut through the dizzy, winded feeling he’d had a few moments ago. He loosens his grip on the inhaler he was clinging to in his pocket.

“She’s good.” Clint says and claps him on his shoulder, pushing him towards the door. “Scary as hell, and fucking manipulative, but good.”

___

I don’t know how many days its been. There’s no window in my ‘room.’ No clock. No way to tell the passing of time. I guess that’s why it feels like its been forever. My insides still burn from the first night and its uncomfortable to move or lie on my back. They haven’t used me since then. Well, not my ass anyway. Pierce says this is training. Training for what they have in store. He says I’m going to be their prize possession. I don’t know what that means but I don’t like it.

I stopped talking a while ago. It was after they gave me to three men, told them they could only use my mouth. I don’t know how long ago that was, but I figure it was only a few hours after those 5 guys took me in that room. So however long I’ve been here, I’ve been silent for most of it. Pierce likes it. He says I don’t need to talk anyway. Whatever. I figure if I don’t talk it’ll be easier to pretend I’m somewhere else. That this is just a dream and I’ll wake up soon.

I try to remember the good things. My life hasn’t been that great so I don’t have much by way of good memories but I have a few.

My mom before the boyfriend. She used to sing to me if I was sick or restless, we’d go to the park and then she’d take me out for ice cream. And then that guy came around and she snapped. She stopped caring and gave me away.

When I was 14 and I made my first real friend at school. She was a junior and I was a freshman, but for whatever reason she came and plopped down right beside me at lunch. Told me I should cut my hair. That was her intro. Crazy, right? We hung out a lot; she mostly got me in trouble...or showed me how to get myself in trouble. It was fun and she always had this way of talking the principal out of punishing us. If not us, at least me. But then that family’d got tired of me and sent me back. I didn’t see her again.

Then there are these past few months with Steve. The first time they’d brought me food—which I’d refused ot eat, of course—I thought of this one time Steve brought me half a sandwich from one of his tricks. He flashed a smile as he handed it to me and said once the guy got him naked, he chickened out. He claimed he was afraid he’d _break_ Steve because he was too skinny. “I told ‘em if he was so concerned about me being small he should buy me a sandwich or something, and he did.” Steve  laughed sitting on the curb with his half of the sandwich. I laughed with him.

“Sorry man.” I said around a mouthful of roast beef and rye. Money lost was money lost, no matter the ridiculousness of the situation. Steve just shook his head and smiled a bit.

“He was married. Tan line. Ring finger. Left hand.” He’d said thoughtfully. And then the virtuous bastard turned to me and said “He went home to his wife or husband, maybe his kids, too. Not…not wrecking another home. That’s payment in itself, you know?”

 

That’s the thing about Steve, he’s a fucking champion of justice is what he is. Swears he isn’t, swears he doesn’t like to get in people’s business. Tries to act like everything he does is about transactions—if he does something for others its because they’ve done something for him. Right. He does things for people and then he _gives_ them an out, either so they won’t guilty for using him or so he won’t feel bad for letting them. He’ll run off a john that’s too wound up, give a heads up about a guy that’s potentially dangerous, put a guy having a bad night on to a trick, save guys from getting beat up by their pimps on the street—all for some petty price like a few extra condoms or some shit. He could have asked that guy to pay him anyway, the probably would have, too. But he let the guy buy him a sandwich and called it even. He saved my ass and then took me under his wing and all I do is beat a guy’s ass every once in a while, and he didn’t even _ask_ me to do that much

That’s the thing about Steve. He’s just _good_. He can’t help himself.

One time I tried to imagine that it was him shoving into my mouth with enough force to bruise the back of my throat, but I couldn’t. Steve wouldn’t be like that; he wouldn’t be vile and violent. He’d be kind and gentle, like no lover I’ve ever had. Going away to that place where I can’t feel, I imagine that Steve kisses like the touch of a feather to my lips. That his tongue is like a drink of water in my dry mouth, his touch like an ointment for my bruised skin. On the streets he doesn’t look at me the way I look at him when I think he’s not watching. But here, in my mind, nothing exists except the adoration in his eyes and the song of his voice.

Hey, I don’t have a lot of good memories, so sometimes I make things up.

Its cheesy as fuck. But it helps...

It helps.

*

When the door bangs open I’m either falling asleep or losing consciousness but either way it startles me out of it. Its Pierce—of course it is—and he’s wearing a wry smile.

“Hello, pet.” He says. “Ready for more training?”

 _Do I fucking look ready for more of you torture, cunt?_ I think to myself. On the outside I dont dignify him with a response.

“Wonderful I’m going to take that as a yes.” Begrudgingly I get up, because while I don’t want to go I definitely don’t want Pierce to touch me, not even to drag me out of here. “Today we’re going to introduce you to the red room…” He says with a sinister smile. “You’ve heard of BDSM, yes? Well I have some very eager sadists looking to make you their boy.”

Inside the room, which is literally red all over, red leather on the walls, red carpet on the floor, and red tile on the ceiling, there are two men waiting. At least the number of men assaulting me gets smaller each time. The men are both wearing jeans with bare chests and feet. They’re standing in front of a cabinet of…things that look painful. I’m already naked, since they don’t ever give me any clothes, and I’m already starting to check out. I barely register Pierces voice as he’s forcing me onto my knees in the middle of the room.

“Brace yourself, _boy_ , this is gonna hurt.”

__

 

“Steve!” Thor’s voice is always loud. Steve doesn’t know where he’s from; he doesn’t know any place where people are so exuberant. “What a joyous surprise. I haven’t seen you under such untroubled conditions. Actually I fear I’ve never seen you in untroubled conditions, I take it this is not a friendly visit?” Thor actually looks a bit disappointed that Steve hasn’t just dropped in to see him.

 “Its about Pierce.” Steve says, dropping into the chair beside Thor’s desk. Natasha sits at her own desk, which is beside Thor’s, but unabashedly angles her chair to include herself in the conversation. Coulson hovers close to Thor’s shoulder and Clint disappears. “I—ok well a few months ago this new kid came around, Sitwell tried to pick him up. It was his first night out so I warned him, told Sitwell to piss off. I’ve been helping him out since then, but we split up a few nights ago and now Pierce has him. I think…I think they’re up to something..something bad.”

“Something bad?” Coulson starts, “do you have a particular reason for that assumption?”

“Yea, this pro-uh guy I know—he’s the one who told me about Bucky—he said they’re trying to attract men—or women, too, I guess—who’ve been turned away from BDSM clubs for inappropriate behavior. Which is just—”

“Genius.” Clint says. Steve doesn’t see him reemerge from wherever he went; yet there he is leaning against Natasha’s desk.

“Cruel…cruel is what I was going to say.” Steve narrows his eyes at Clint.

“Look, this is what they figure. In order to make real money at what they’re trying to do, they’d have to snatch a real shit ton—”

“—Clint, professionalism _please_ —”

“—of prostitutes off of the streets. The market is far too competitive to do anything less. So that’s what they’ve been doing. _But_ now we’re hot on their asse—tail… we’ve figured out that they’ve been manipulating and monopolizing this market and they know we’re onto them, even close to busting them. So, jacking kids off the street and dumping them six months later malnourished, dehydrated and violated? Risky—er. Riskier.” Steve shudders at the thought of Hydra dumping the people they’ve used out like dirty towels. It makes his blood boil.

Clint continues. “Now, what do you do when you have limited access to the material you need to create a profitable product?” Clint only pauses for a moment, watching the wheels turn in the heads of the people around him. It doesn’t take long for realization to dawn on their faces.

“You reimagine your product; change what you’re selling.” Natasha says.

“Exactly. You make it cheaper to produce and more expensive to buy. You take 3 or 4 guys and you sell them to a client base that’s willing to pay 10 times more because they can’t get what they want from just anywhere.” Natasha rolls her eyes.

“When did you become an economics and marketing executive?” She chides.

“Circus ain’t just about clowns.” He replies with a smirk and a wink.

“Barton is right.” Thor says. “This is very reasonable. Hydra’s movement has slowed recently outside of a few isolated incidents, this one among them.”

“They’ve slowed down, but we still know of 5 facilities in and surrounding Brooklyn they are currently operating.” Coulson says.

 _“_ If you guys know where they are why haven’t you shut them down?” Steve asks, vexed.

“We hope to catch them in the worst of their offenses, as to ensure prosecution and proper punishment for their atrocities.” Thor says.

“But… you helped me.”

“And as you can see, those charges didn’t stick.” Its Natasha speaking this time.

“This new information changes things; its advances our investigation by at least ten steps.” Coulson pipes in. “ The guys Hydra’s marketing to aren’t just regular solicitors, they are violent. One wrong move—right move for us—and Pierce and his gang could go down for aid and abetting a potential murder or conspiracy to kill.”

“But…that—” Steve stutters, suddenly woozy...again. _Potential_ murder _…conspiracy to_ kill are the only things running through his mind. The strangling sense of not having enough air rises...again...but he swallows it without much thought. and again his body reacts before his mind catches up with it and he clambers quickly to his feet, face white and fists slammed against Thor’s desk. “Bucky has to _die_ before you can help him?!”

“Steve. You don't-” Someone starts, its Phil, but Steve is too wound up to notice or to care.

“No. Don't tell me I don't understand.  I understand clearly. Bucky is out there, and Pierce is wrecking him. And you _know_ where they are and haven’t done anything, because you need to wait until he’s seriously hurt or even dead.” Steve chuckles. “I shouldn’t have come here.” _I shouldn’t have trusted_ “Just…I’ll figure it out on my own.”

“ _Steven_ ” Thor says, rising from his own seat to follow Steve to the door. Steve sighs, but when the man grabs his arm he doesn’t pull away. “My first assignment at this city’s office was to locate and retrieve a young man that had seemingly disappeared. It was a case of little hope—a grim prognosis. Yet I pursued the case with the effort of a valiant warrior. Perhaps it is because I, a naturalized citizen of this land, sought to prove my allegiance to your country. Perhaps it was because I wished to do a good deed or because I was consumed with my work. However _I_ believe it was because though the current circumstance proved unfavorable, that young man’s story was at the same time tale after tale of unfavorable circumstances and tale after tale of success.”

“Look Thor—”

“I did not understand it at first. How, though you experienced many a chance to be hopeless, you maintained enough hope to continue on.”

Steve snorts dismissively.

“and then I witnessed you in the vile conditions of Hyrda’s facility. You fought not with weapons, but with that hope fostered by years of surviving conditions just as horrific. Don’t lie to yourself, Steven. There are few men such as you. You have a heart of goodness but even more an expectation of greatness. Its written all over you, and it brings you great fortune.”

“Fortune? Really. I don’t feel fortunate at all, actually.”

“I assure you no harm will come to your friend. But Steve, you walked through the doors of this office wrought with a fear uncharacteristic of one such as you. You must remember existence of hope does not rely on the _likelihood_ that things will go as we please, but on the _insistence_ that that tomorrow must be better than today. That insistence has been your trademark.” Steve sucks his teeth, because Thor is right. Just like Natasha was. These people are killing him. 

“What is it with you guys trying to tell me who and what I am?”

“Not tell, only remind. It is easy to forget when danger threatens the ones we love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea so incase it wasn't clear, Steve is OOC because he's worried crazy about bucky.   
> next chapter, the rescue! yay!

**Author's Note:**

> leave feedback. please! please!


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